It was already a couple of hours past lunch by the time I stepped out of the Haruno household. I hadn't planned to stay that long, but Mebuki had a way of dragging things out—literally and figuratively. I'd only meant to check in, warm her up a little. Instead, I ended up balls-deep in the woman.
Still, my mind wasn't on the mom anymore. It drifted to the daughter, to Sakura.
I wasn't going to live in this world and not go after the pinket, now was I?
That'd be like walking to the river dying of thirst and refusing to drink. Stupid. Pointless. Against nature.
I'd toyed with the idea of using Devil's Whisper on her before, and I did. A light suggestion here and there. Just to nudge things along. None of it worked.
She got a brain under all that forehead. A natural tilt toward genjutsu, even if no one's properly trained her yet. She could feel things, notice the shifts.
But this changed things.
Finding her mother getting railed and hearing her moaning…. that did something to Sakura. Shock cracked her open. Her mind gaped, wide and unguarded. And in that split second, Devil's Whisper slipped in. Roots curling deep, soft, and slow.
That thought alone had me half-hard again.
It wasn't just the power working. It was the idea that somewhere in her pretty little head, Sakura was already thinking about me in ways she didn't even understand yet.
And that was exciting.
I was tempted to turn right the hell back around and give her a go.
Her head was spinning, her guard was shot to shit—she would've let something happen, even if she didn't fully get why. Just a few more steps and I could've pushed that open door wide.
But I didn't.
Because this wasn't about rushing it. It's about letting it simmer. The human mind doesn't shift in a snap — it brews. Stews in conflicting emotions, tension, desire, shame. Especially when it's someone like Sakura, with a strict moral compass and a need to be in control. The more time she spends turning it over in her head—what she saw, what it made her feel—the deeper the Devil's Whisper takes root. If I moved too fast, she'd resist. But if I let it marinate.…..
…. or not. Fucking Kushina had made me way too optimistic. Unreasonably so.
I shook my head and continued in stroll past my way home. I'd already come once, and, as much as I was eager to give more, pushing my body further would be stupid. Any shinobi worth their hitai-ate knows chakra doesn't just fuel jutsu.
It was in the pulse of the blood, the tension in the muscles, the way the brain fires when you're halfway between life and death. And after hours of fucking, that energy's drained. Not just physically. The coils feel sluggish and fine control slips.
To put it simply, chakra was the mold of physical energy and spiritual energy.
Sex drains both.
For at least five, maybe eight hours control would be sluggish and molding chakra was annoyingly inefficient. And the worst part? Recovery crawled. For the next twenty-four hours, my coils would replenish at half their usual speed.
When you took all that into consideration sex wasn't just stupid for a shinobi. It was asinine. A temporary high that left you slower, softer, less.
That was suicide for a shinobi who spent years surviving by keeping their edge sharp.
And now that I've decided to get back out there, start taking missions again, I've got to cut back on the fucking-around-for-fun routine. Can't afford distractions. The village might look peaceful on the surface, but I've been around long enough to know better. Trouble always brews under the mask of calm.
And when it hits, I need to be ready. Dick tucked away, chakra topped off, and no unfinished business hanging around my neck.
Well, that….. if I was the ideal me. But honestly, I didn't trust myself all that much.
I can at least try.
I got back to my four-walled shack — bare bones, functional, not much to look at. I swept my eyes across the room as I stepped in, eyes landing on the little markers I'd set up. All untouched. No signs of entry. Nobody had broken in this time.
I never bothered with actual traps. Too noisy, too obvious. Anyone dumb enough to try something wouldn't get far anyway. But for the smart ones — the ones who could slip in — I had subtle indicators. Ninja-proof breadcrumbs that'd let me know if someone even breathed near my shit.
A flicker of disappointment curled in my gut. No Anko. I'd half-expected to find her here. The woman had no respect for boundaries. Sprawled across my floor or rifling through my things, if only so I could make good on my promise.
I caught myself grinning like an idiot and nearly slapped it off my face. I'd just told myself to slow the hell down. Back off the indulgences. If I didn't trust anyone else in this world, I sure as hell shouldn't trust myself.
Anko was like a storm—fast, chaotic, impossible to pin down. She was probably at that Dango shop she loved... what was it called? Right — Mitarashi's Tooth. Some hole-in-the-wall where she could gorge herself and flirt with the old lady while licking skewers clean.
If not there, she might've slithered off to the Forest of Death, doing gods-know-what to some poor Chunin who looked at her wrong. Or maybe I'd scared her off last time, pushed it a little too far.
Either way, she wasn't here.
Fine. I had work to do, anyway.
I locked the door behind me out of habit, not necessity.
To the right of the room, fourth tile from the corner—looked just like the rest. I knelt, pressed my fingers to the edge, and released the flow — just a sliver of chakra. The seal broke with a soft click.
Beneath the tile, my most valuable possessions waited. A small stack of tight-sealed scrolls, varying in size. Some held old mission logs. Others were projects I had procrastinated on. A bit of ryo was tucked in there too, for emergencies — not that I ever touched it. A carefully packed bundle of ninja tools and a full set of duplication materials: blank scrolls, ink, and, brushes I'd hand-carved for jutsu shiki drawing.
I reached in and pulled out one of the unfinished projects—a medium-sized scroll, almost the length of my arm. Not massive, but the biggest I owned. Thick, heavy with chakra sealwork etched halfway through it. I carried it to the kitchen table and unrolled it slowly.
The idea was simple. Or it used to be. I'd based it on a concept from a piece of fiction in my old world. At its core, it was a high-efficiency jutsu seal. Take powerful ninjutsu, embed them into the scroll, and then unleash them on demand. A portable arsenal. Seventy percent fuinjutsu to seal a plethora of techniques and thirty percent custom formulae for control.
The sealing formulas weren't the hard part.
When I started two years ago, it all made sense. Back then, it was just a clever concept, floating in my head, neat and tidy. Now I looked at the mess of formulae, notations, chakra paths—and my brain started to cramp. The ink patterns looked familiar, but the logic behind them might as well have been alien.
Two months since I'd last touched it.
"Who the fuck wrote this..."
I stared at the labyrinth for another minute, trying to force a connection.
Then exhaled through my nose, rolled the scroll back up, and slid it into its place as if nothing happened. I'll work on it later. Probably. It needed field testing anyway.…..
I decided to shift gears and work on something else — something easier. But weren't they all?
The Civilian-grade storage scrolls I thought of earlier.
My fingers dug back into the stash, this time pulling out a hand-sized scroll—small, unassuming, perfect for a proof of concept. No sense wasting a larger one on what was essentially a scribble of an idea.
Starting a new project always felt good. Clean. Full of possibility. It was only later, when the layers piled on and you started chasing perfection, that it turned into a headache. That's when the fun bleeds out and you end up avoiding your work like it owes you money.
I unrolled it halfway and started mapping out the first seal, brush in hand, ink settling into the fibers with that satisfying pull. A few careful strokes — chakra-guided precision — and the framework began to form.
I'd been crafting my own sealing scrolls since I was twelve. By now, I was more than comfortable with the process—hell, I'd call myself a professional. The scrollwork itself wasn't the challenge. Neither were the formulas for sealing chakra into the medium. That stuff was muscle memory at this point. Even the less-used configurations came back to me after flipping through some of my older notes.
The real difficulty came from the civilian angle.
It's easy to build something when the user knows how to channel chakra. But civilians have no control over their meager chakra. No training. Most didn't even know what chakra was, let alone how to use it and that, if they had enough to use it.
Using skin contact as a passive conductor, like how some devices in my old world used touch to trigger a response. I gave it a shot. Ran a few trials.
I'd had this idea earlier. Using skin contact as a passive conductor, like how some devices in my old world used touch to trigger. A switch of sorts. I gave it a shot. Ran a few trials.
Didn't work.
Chakra was not like electricity. It doesn't stay on rails or follow clean circuits. It leaks. Spreads. Diffuses into the air if not anchored properly.
With no consistency or precision, that whole angle got scrapped after the third ruined scroll.
Back to the drawing board.
I leaned back, fingers drumming against the table. Skin contact was out. Direct chakra conduction was too unstable. But if the problem was control, then maybe the solution wasn't to force civilians to mimic shinobi.
So I started thinking differently. If I couldn't rely on the user to control the chakra, maybe the scroll could do it for them. Auto-triggered seals, pre-charged, just enough to activate once under the right conditions.
A button. A fucking button on paper.
How was that supposed to work? Press too hard, and you'd crumple the seal. Too light, and nothing would happen. And if the mechanism wore down after a few uses, the whole thing would be useless.
My eyes flicked to the discarded prototype. The ink had smudged at the edges, bleeding into the parchment like a bruise. I rolled it between my fingers, feeling the smooth wood of the spindle. That was solid. That could take pressure.
What if the trigger wasn't on the paper at all? What if it was built into the roller? A tiny switch or latch, something that — when twisted or pressed — would complete the circuit and activate the seal.
I exhaled sharply. Possible. But—
I wasn't a carpenter. Or a blacksmith. Or whatever the hell one needed to be to craft precision parts that small. I could carve a basic spindle, sure, but anything more complex was outside my skill set. And outsourcing it feels like a pain in the ass.
Still. The concept had merit.
I sketched it out anyway — crude diagrams of a spindle with a sliding pin, a twist-lock mechanism, even a simple spring-loaded press. None of it was practical to make, but the theory was sound.
It was getting late in the night by the time I noticed how long I'd been at it. I haven't eaten anything. I sat back, flexing my hand to get the ink stiffness out of my fingers.
The scroll looked like it had been through a war zone—half seals, half doodles, margins full of messy notations and dead-end ideas. What started simple was already spiraling into something bigger, messier. Of course, it was. That's how these things always went. The second you tried to make something foolproof, the universe shoved a bigger fool in your face.
I wasn't even surprised. Not even a little.
Still, I didn't toss it. I rolled the scroll up carefully, tucked it off to the side of the table, and made a mental note to check the village library tomorrow.